The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  Lucia was sitting with her knees up, as she had been, her dark woolen cloak gathered tightly around her. Connor remembered how she always used to wear white. Now he only saw her in her dark travel clothes, as if her innocence was lost and replaced by a cloak of misery. Though they had shared sleeping quarters for about a month now, she had been able to hide her body from his eyes – not that he had really tried, or that his frequent absence had made that especially hard for her. But still he thought it was strange, and admittedly disappointing. For his part, he had tried to treat her with respect, and had not touched her at all. But he had not gone out of his way to hide himself from her. Connor thought that he had caught her staring a few times, but in the girl’s current frame of mind whether she was lusting over him or planning where she would thrust the knife remained in question.

  The oilskin tent was not up to keeping the moisture out, and a puddle was forming under the apex. Lucia stared into the puddle, almost as if she was expecting to see a vision.

  “Are we going to die?” Lucia asked, not turning her gaze.

  Connor sat down. He reached for a small flagon of wine. His heart was pounding and his hands trembled slightly as he poured a cup. He needed to sleep – he felt exhausted, but his heart and mind were racing. Though his exterior was still and careful, he could not seem to calm his mind and body down.

  “What does your goddess tell you?”

  “She does not say. I know that I am travelling her path for her purpose, but I do not know where it leads.”

  “Well then I will tell you what I know,” Connor said. “We are not going to die.”

  Lucia smirked bitterly. Connor sipped his wine, reminding himself that there was too much that needed to be done for him to indulge in more than one cup. Their whole future hinged on today. He offered the flagon to Lucia, but she refused with a gesture. Nonetheless, he could see by looking at her eyes and her skin that she had ended the fast that threatened to undo her. She was probably only eating bread and water, but at least she was eating.

  “I will tell you how I know that we are not going to die,” Connor said. He set the wine down and went to draw his sword so that he could sharpen it. He stopped when he remembered that he had sharpened it through half the night as he watched Lucia sleep, expecting to have to defend her against Sarus’ host at dawn. The ring of the stone on the blade and the rhythmic motion seemed to focus his energy and calm his nerves. It seemed strange to him – he felt worse now than he had when he had been spying on the bacaudae yesterday. How could he feel anxious when nothing was happening, but focused when his life was actually at stake?

  “Illuminate me,” Lucia said sardonically.

  “I have seen the enemy, and I have seen us. I do not know what they have inside, but I know what we have inside. It is that simple.”

  Lucia smiled despite herself. Connor finished his wine, threw his damp cloak over him, and watched water moving on the roof of the tent as the hours passed towards noon.

  XXI

  It would be dawn soon, but for now all was blackness. For the first time in days there was no rain or sleet, only the stark air about them; but the clouds still hung low in the sky. Connor led the way forward, crawling on his belly over the cold, wet ground. Tuldin and Henric were behind him as he followed the stream, trusting to the high grasses to conceal them from the few treacherous moonbeams that would at times break free. Connor worked diligently to control his breathing. “Control your breathing to control your body,” Titus used to say; but right now Connor felt that his heart must be loud enough for the dogs within the palisade to hear him coming. They were still a few hundred yards off, creeping slowly, risking as little as they could until it was time to risk everything.

  There was little question that the bacaudae knew of them by now. Sarus would have reached the ravine yesterday, about two or three hours after leaving the camp. As Connor looked at the seemingly intact palisade ahead, and not a smoldering ruin of a settlement, he knew that Sarus had not found the bacaudae before they found him. Even if it had been possible for him to get his people around the trap, it would have been impossible for him to get his wagons up the steep inclines outside of the path. Therefore Connor was fairly certain that Sarus had been trapped by the men who guarded the pass. It was only a matter as to whether he fought his way out or bought his way out. Sarus was a proud man and a great general; but because he was a great general it was unlikely that he would have risked his men against such hopeless odds if he did not have to. So it seemed likely to Connor that he had bought his way out, and Connor knew that one of the things he would have sold the bacaudae was Valia and his followers.

  Nearby a small owl challenged them, but did not stir from his branch. In the east the edges around the wooded slopes that towered above grew faintly gray. The palisade ahead was constructed of pine logs, sharpened on the top and lashed tightly. It looked to be about ten feet high. No gate was visible from Connor’s angle, as he and the others approached it obliquely for better concealment from the watchmen that he knew must be there. Whatever happened, they needed to be within the shadow of the walls when the light took to the sky. If they were caught in the open field between the river and the fort it may take only one good bowman to kill the three of them.

  Within the settlement Connor had seen thatched roves. He wondered how many of these bacaudae might just be women and children, or the old and infirm. He had heard many stories of them while he was a slave. The bacaudae may be thieves and criminals, and were often murderers and sometimes – as in one famous uprising a hundred years before – even revolutionaries; but many had been merely plebes who had been forced to run away. Wrung dry by ever-heavier taxation; menaced by one civil war after another and the ever-worsening incursions of Germani from outside the Imperium; persecuted for religions that were no longer accepted by the status quo; many had just decided that they were better off making their own life in the wilderness. Connor thought of Philip, and the woman in the market at Masillia who watched her children dragged into slavery. Some of these bacaudae may have started out in similar straights as these. But something had made them decide that they would not accept it. Something made them decide that the costs of society had outweighed the benefits it offered, and they had fled to live as the wild Germani did, in small bands answerable only to themselves. Yet any sympathy Connor had for them did not change the fact that these men now lived by the sword and lived by taking whatever they could. The wild game here must be ample enough, but there was nothing else – the bacaudae survived off of the hardship of others, just as others had once tried to live off them. Unlike Sarus, Valia had little treasure left to offer. So they would be after the food that there was already too little of, or they may even try to take some of the women and children as slaves to trade. Connor quickened his pace, leaving the edge of the stream and crawling the last few dozen yards of open ground. He was not going to let that happen.

  The gray light of dawn came quickly. The three men froze as within the enclave a dog began to bark; but it did not seem to be alerting on them, and soon it was quiet. They were close enough to the palisade to hear the noises of the settlement waking up. They could smell the urine on the walls and the mix of human and animal feces from the pens. Connor looked back to the wooded mountainside that had sheltered him when he first spied on the enclave two days ago. Hopefully, Valia and his force of forty men were already concealed there. Another forty or so were to take up positions near the opposite ledge of the ravine. Well down the slope, hidden within the shadows of a rocky overhang, the remainder of Valia’s Visigoths with their horses and wagons held in place waiting to pass through. Lucia was there depending on him now, as Connor rested his back to the outside of the palisade and prepared to make their move.

  “We must move around to the rear,” Henric breathed, coming up beside him. “The women will be gathering water soon.”

  Henric was right. Every morning, everywhere in the world, began with women fetching water. The bacaudae women m
ight not see them on the way out of the camp, but they would definitely see them coming back from the stream. Connor followed Henric and Tuldin, now walking in a low crouch. The rear of the palisade was oriented to the east, so there would be no shadow to conceal them. The three hung close to the walls, hoping for luck. Within the enclave the sound of morning activity continued. Connor heard pigs grunting in their pen, and a man’s voice cursing from just the other side of the wall. He took a deep breath and again forced himself to calm, but if the man did not move on then they would have to find a new spot. Moments later, the voice was silenced. Connor ventured to try to peak through one of the narrow spaces where the logs did not meet flush. He could not get more than a sliver of a view, but it seemed the man was gone. The settlement within the walls looked like he would expect any mountain village to look. Women, dirty and dressed in tattered garments carried wicker baskets and buckets, going about their morning chores. A grubby child, wearing only an oversized tunic, squatted in the path near one of the long houses. Then he spied a man carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows walking from one of the houses to the fore of the enclave. Connor noted the man’s short stabbing sword and dented helmet, but he wore no other armor. Within seconds he had disappeared.

  “They are preparing to move out,” Connor mouthed. This was good, for the longer the bacaudae had waited to deploy the longer Valia’s men would remain in hiding. And the more likely he and his friends were to be caught, Connor mused as he looked up to see the corner of the watchtower above them to the right. He could see the arms of a single sentry on the wooden platform; but the sentry’s gaze was naturally turned out, scanning the mountainsides that rose around them. He was not watching the base of his own wall – though any movement would certainly attract his eyes. Tuldin motioned for Connor and Henric to follow him, as he took up a position in what would be the best blind spot for the tower sentry. Nonetheless, Connor felt very exposed as he tried to melt from one place to the other. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening hard. He could hear the voices of the women as they carried water from the stream. They were talking animatedly about something, but Connor could not catch the words. On the other side of the wall two men walked by, laughing. The people within the enclave seemed to be in a good mood this morning, and why not? They had caught some rich Visigoths yesterday and got a big pay day out of it; and today they were expecting more.

  Connor guessed that the men would not leave until at least after the water had been brought in. It seemed like forever, but within what was probably a short time the women had come back into the enclave. Soon the three spies heard what could only be the men assembling by the gate. There were no trumpet calls or orders barked, but the sounds of conversation and spear butts and shields clattering carelessly together told of a large group gathering. Any doubt that they were expected vanished from Connor’s mind. They would not be contending with the few watchmen on either side of the ravine that Connor had seen two days before. They would be dealing with these bacaudae in strength.

  The large group of men hushed their voices as they began to move out. Connor had heard Henric and Gaiseric disparage their kind before, but this was the bacaudae’s game and they knew how to play it too win. There was no telling how long this thieves’ den had been out here or how many parties of travelers – innocent or otherwise – it had deprived of wealth or even life. Connor gripped the hilt of Archangel and muttered a quick prayer under his breath.

  Carefully, Tuldin crept towards the corner of the palisade. The sentry would be looking out towards the men deploying, naturally, but it was still a great risk. They were close, and could turn back to kill them with one call. But despite the fact that Valia seldom used Tuldin for foot reconnaissance, Connor saw that the dark man was gifted at it. Clothed in black and dark brown leathers, his lank black hair tied back for once, and his curved sword strapped to his back, the Hun moved like a ghost. Though it was now full morning and there was neither shadow nor foliage to conceal them, no one could sense this assassin drift by. Tuldin took to a knee and peered out from the corner. Looking swiftly in the other direction, Connor saw a group of men making their way along a small trail, several hundred yards away, heading towards the other side of the gulley. In that group alone there must be fifty men or more.

  “The thicker the grass, the easier it is mowed,” Henric whispered.

  Tuldin signaled as he moved back towards them. It was time.

  Connor produced the pile of tinder – sticks that had been finely shaved, with some down feathers worked in. He built the pile up in a mound in front of them. It would not take much. Henric took out his flint and drew his knife. This was the dangerous part, because it was impossible to do it without some noise, yet the guard never noticed as the sparks flew to the tinder below him. The tinder caught, and an eager flame began to climb. Tuldin already had his bow bent across his hip, employing the muscles and weight of his whole body to fit the string to both ends. He emptied eight arrows from his first quiver on the ground between Connor and Henric.

  “Hurry,” the Hun said. He stood up tall, fitting an arrow from his second quiver to his bow string as he looked at the watchtower. His voice had been at a normal level. He no longer tried to move slowly. He did not care if the sentry saw him; in fact it would only make it easier. Tuldin pulled the bow, drawing the arrow fletching back almost to his ear. As Connor took up one of the spilled arrows and held the wrapped head in the fire he realized that Tuldin had already mentally made the shot. The sentry turned towards them as he registered motion in his peripheral vision. Connor saw the look of alarm as the man’s mouth opened. But no cry came as the flying arrow took him through the left eye. Without looking down, Tuldin reached for a lit arrow. Connor handed it to him as he lit another. The small fire they had built was already fading. They needed to work faster. Tuldin launched the flaming arrow almost straight up, not using too much force. It came down again, burying deep into the thatch of the nearest longhouse on the other side of the wall.

  Henric handed him an arrow and Tuldin repeated the shot. Connor was amazed by the precision, but Tuldin had a bow in his hands every day since he was old enough to stand, and this was not the first village he had burned. The sentry was dead and three arrows burned in the roof of one of the buildings, but no one yet seemed to have noticed.

  “The thatch is wet,” Henric said. “It isn’t going to burn right.”

  “It will burn,” Tuldin said, adding some force to his pull and launching a fourth arrow. He was now targeting a second building. Their tinder fire had all but burned out, but Connor and Henric were lighting each arrow from the last one. On the other side of the palisade the thatch of the first long house smoldered and spat up thin white smoke. But then Connor saw a red glow spreading within the thatch and heard the crackle of flame. Within the enclave a woman screamed. Another took up the call, and then another.

  “Fire!”

  The heat of the thatch fire met them as the smoke started to billow an angry gray. The second roof was catching. Screams of panic sounded everywhere, and Connor was suddenly very afraid, not for himself, but that some child or infirm person might be trapped. Tuldin was pulling back the last of the flaming arrows. Connor put his hand on his arm.

  “Stop!” Connor urged. The Hun looked at him blankly. “It’s just a distraction – we don’t want to burn these people completely out in the winter.”

  “I can’t waste the arrow,” Tuldin said, and released it nonchalantly into a third building. There was no time for either of them to say more. Tuldin slung his bow over his back and followed Henric towards the corner of the palisade. It was time to go.

  Loud cries continued to come from within the enclave, but Connor heard none that were of pain or despair and was thankful for that. It was a terrible thing to start a fire, and he felt as if he had let loose a demon from its cage. As the three turned the corner they found dozens of men and women running to get more water from the stream. He had made a mistake, Connor realized – they shou
ld have gone the other way, maybe even following the trail that had taken the other bacaudae to the far side of the ravine. It was too late now. Several people saw them and screamed as they recognized them for what they were. Tuldin and Henric drew their swords and screamed a war cry as they started to run. This was enough to scatter the throng away from them, as many of these were still unarmed. Tuldin whipped his curved blade across the belly of one older man who held a knife then, spinning, took another who tried to grab him, all without losing momentum. Henric sliced his blade across the thigh of a would-be attacker. Then they were through, leaving the men and women fighting the fire in further disarray. Connor followed, sword in hand. He had no desire to engage the villagers, whatever their allegiance. His fight was with the armed bacaudae at the ravine – and as all hundred or more of these came running, drawn by the flames and black smoke and the screams of their comrades, he knew that their fight was now with him.

  More than fifty men were coming on this side of the ravine, racing over the rolling ground of winter-brown grass and gray stone that Connor, Tuldin, and Henric had crossed in the dark hours. They had expected to be the ones making the demands to a trapped adversary that day, possibly even to fight from the safety of their perfect positions above their foes. The outbreak of the fire had taken them completely off-guard. But as one by one they saw the three armed men running towards them, their surprise turned to blind rage. Connor had no difficulty picking out their leader – a huge, dark-haired man with shoulders like the span of a bull’s horns, decked pretentiously in gold chains and jewels over his rusty mail. This man was soon in front, raising a sword over his head and sounding a battle cry that could have struck fear in the hearts of a Rhinelander. Behind him his men came, raggedly dressed and scantily armored, but all armed and all capable. They charged towards their village and towards Connor and the others. Connor shuddered knowing that an equal force was approaching from his flank across the back trail. But he had to run straight forward. If he paused even for a moment, any enemy near the palisade could shoot him in the back. Connor had no shield with him. The old coat of mail – armor he was now well used to after wearing it every day since they had left Montevarius’ estate – was his only protection besides luck, speed, and the two warriors by his side. But what was that to fifty men?